


All My Secrets Away

by travels_in_time



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travels_in_time/pseuds/travels_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: "Lestrade doesn't have a first name. He gave it away in exchange for _____? Gen or Sherlock/Lestrade preferred."</p><p>(Rated for general audiences, but does have one instance of strong language.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Secrets Away

Greg is seven years old. Joseph is only a few days old. Greg can ride a bike and play football and look after Danny, who's only four, and climb to the top of the school roof (they sent home a note about that, and his mum tore it up before his dad saw it) and do lots of other things besides. Joseph can't do anything, as far as Greg can tell, except make noise and messes. And trouble. He's made a lot of trouble so far, for all he's tiny and helpless, and Greg is seven years old and scared.

"What do you want?" she asks gently.

Greg never thinks of lying, never thinks of hiding the truth. No one could, looking at her. "I want my mum to be okay."

"What will you give?"

Anything. He'd give anything, if Mum would open her eyes and laugh with him, get out of bed and feed Joseph and rock Danny to sleep and read to Greg before bed, even though he can read perfectly well on his own. What does he have that's worth that?

Her eyes drift to the crib. "Will you give me the child?"

 _The child_. If it weren't for _the child_ , this wouldn't be happening. It would be a fair trade, wouldn't it? But Greg thinks about the only glimpse he's had of his mum, before he was hurried out of the room. They were taking Joseph away from her, and she was crying.

It hurts him to say it. How can he turn down the only chance he might have at saving his mum? But if she lives and asks for Joseph again, how could he tell her that he's gone?

"He's not mine to give."

She smiles. It's not like his mum's smile. It makes him think of barbed wire fences and broken glass. "Then what is?"

He looks around in desperation, and remembers only thing he owns. "You could have Edward."

He knows, even as he says it, that it's a dumb idea. Edward wasn't new when Greg first got him. He's old and patched and missing an eye and half his stuffing has gone. But Greg doesn't care. His dad says he's too old for stuffed toys, so Edward stays hidden until the lights are out and no one can see Greg reaching under the bed, carefully hiding Edward under the covers with him. When the shouting grows too loud, Greg tells Edward stories to drown out the noise until he falls asleep.

He doesn't really think she'll agree, but it's the only thing he can think of.

She considers, and smiles again. "I accept your offer."

Greg's aunt comes out of the bedroom a few hours later and collapses, sobbing, at the kitchen table. He's terrified, until she says shakily that his mum's awake and wants something to eat. He's only allowed to see her for a few minutes, but she smiles at him and kisses him, and he doesn't even mind that Joseph is once again snuggled close to her side.

He goes to bed that night happier than he can ever remember being, even if Mum's not yet well enough to read to him. It's several weeks before the shouting and the subsequent nightmares come back, and Greg reaches under the bed without thinking. His hand encounters only empty air, and then he can't remember what he was reaching for. He pulls the pillow over his head and falls back into uneasy sleep.

***********************

***********************

Greg is ten. Too old to cry, he knows. His fists are clenched and he's biting his lip in an effort to control himself, but when she appears he doesn't even try to swipe away the tell-tale traces on his face.

"What do you want?"

 _I want him dead._ He swallows. "Make him leave us _alone_."

"What will you give?"

He knows what he wants to give. From the gaze she slides his way, sharp and cold like a knife, she knows too.

"Will you give him to me?"

 _Yes. Take him far away, and welcome to him._ Something ugly is burning in him. He recognizes it, that's the worst thing. The urge to strike out, to break and destroy, he's seen it far too often.

He shakes his head. "I can't. Don't...don't hurt him. Make him go away. And you can have whatever you want that's mine."

She considers him for a long moment, and then nods. "His freedom, and yours. I accept your offer."

He doesn't understand, but she's gone in a whirl of leaves and light before he can ask. After a few minutes he rubs roughly at his eyes, ashamed of his momentary weakness. He goes back inside and makes sure Danny finishes his homework, pretending that he doesn't see the bruises on his mother's arms.

Two weeks later, his father disappears. A few weeks after that, his mother is trying to explain to them all that he won't be coming back anytime soon. She's not using the word "prison", but Greg can hear it anyway. Danny is crying as she explains that things will be different now, and Joey, too small to understand anything anyway, is bawling in sympathy. Greg isn't crying. Neither is his mother.

Given all that, his bicycle going missing that same week really isn't important. His mother apologizes over and over again because she can't afford to buy him another one. She knows that he loved that bike, that he rode to school every day on it, that he visited his friends with it.

It doesn't matter. He can walk to school, and he'll have to stick closer to home now anyway, to watch his brothers while his mother works. There won't be time for visiting friends. He tries to reassure his mum, and she says fiercely, " _You're_ not the one meant to be locked up."

It stirs something in his memory, but when he gropes after it, he can't place it. It's all part of growing up, he figures. You learn to do without things. His mother would only feel more guilty if he said that, though, so he doesn't.

*****************

*****************

Greg is sitting at the kitchen table again, staring into space, not really seeing the papers scattered across it. Danny's just stomped off to his room and slammed the door, and now he's throwing things around with the deliberate disregard of the perpetually angry teenager. Joey is already in the room he shares with Greg, where he'd retreated when the fight started. He's never cared for confrontations, and he's only gone quieter over the past few months.

Greg runs a hand through his hair, setting it on end and sighing. Joey's trying to disappear, and Danny's trying to set new records for juvenile delinquency, and Greg's...well, Greg's been distracted.

There's no distraction now, only mind-numbing despair.

 _You could have saved her,_ he thinks angrily, but he doesn't say it, because once she's there it's so obvious that she doesn't work that way. Anything she grants him will always and only be on her terms, never his.

"What do you want?" she asks, and he actually has to stop a moment, trying to remember how to breathe. The one thing he wants, he can never have again.

It takes him a few minutes, but once he's past the initial barrier, his answer is never in doubt. "I want them safe. Both of them. Safe and happy and--" he gropes for the right terms. "Taken care of."

For the first time, she sounds angry. "I cannot bargain for what has already been given."

There are rules, then, he thinks, a bit surprised. In the brief stolen moments when she appeared, when he remembered, he had never thought to ask.

But she's wrong. That is a surprise as well. He'd thought she could read minds. Maybe she's just very, very good at reading people.

"Not me," he clarifies. "I'm--they need someone else. I don't know how to help them." He hopes it's not coming through in his voice, how much that hurts him.

"What will you give me?"

Greg is exhausted. He feels like he hasn't slept in months, the strain of keeping calm and quiet today during the services has been wearing on him, and the fight with Danny has him on edge, ragged and raw. "I don't care. I just want them to be all right." The gleam in her eye makes him stipulate hastily, yet again, "Anything that's mine."

"Both of them," she murmurs thoughtfully. "That will be a high price. I accept your offer."

A key rattles in the lock, and he looks up, startled, as his aunt comes in. "Sorry I wasn't here sooner," she says wearily, sitting down at the table beside him. "You boys shouldn't be on your own right now."

He bristles. "I'm old enough to look after them."

She ignores that. "I had to speak to Ted. We've known this was coming for a while, of course, but he was out of work for so long and we weren't sure...but there was never any doubt, you know that, of course we'll be happy to have you."

(Never any doubt, she says. He wonders for a fleeting instant if that's true, if his bargain was ever necessary at all, but the sudden doubt disappears as quickly as it came, leaving no memory behind.)

There's something hidden in his aunt's tone, something that she's not saying yet. He's too exhausted to ask, just stares at her, waiting.

She takes a deep breath. "Greg, this isn't going to be easy. You know we love you, and we'll do the best we can for all of you. But...we're going to need some help. Just for a while, until we get caught up. Do you understand?"

He does, with mind-numbing clarity. They have three children of their own, she and Uncle Ted; two young sons, rowdy and boisterous, and a small daughter, Jenny, who doesn't speak at all, except for the occasional screaming fit, and doesn't ever meet anyone's eyes. They are good people, his aunt and uncle. He'd trust Danny and Joey to them any day, of course he would. But they're stretched to the breaking point, and no matter how good their intentions, he knows they won't be able to make this work without his help.

"Yes. Of course," he says quietly. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," his aunt snaps. She sounds angry, but he knows she's not--not at him, anyway. "I'm sorry, Greg. It shouldn't be this way. I wish we could give you everything you deserve. Your mother wouldn't want--"

"My mother would be happy to know that you're taking care of us. And she'd want me to do whatever I can to help out." Greg clears his throat. "David at the garage keeps saying he'll take me on full-time if I want. I'll go and talk to him tomorrow."

"Only for a bit. You'll be able to go back to university soon. You've made such a promising start."

He looks at the piles of unpaid bills on the table again. "Yeah. All right."

***********************

***********************

 

"Toby! Hold on, the ambulance is on the way, okay? Just hang in there." Greg leans over, feeling for a pulse that's barely detectable, and tries to control the panic in his voice. "Toby, can you hear me?"

Light illuminates the darkened alley for a moment, and without looking up, he snaps, "Don't even ask. You already know."

She shrugs; he can see the movement out of the corner of his eye. "There are formalities which must be observed."

He does look up now, and the complete disinterest in her face only sharpens his fear. "He doesn't have time for formalities!"

She laughs. "He has all the time that I choose to give him."

The pulse against his fingers has stopped, and Greg looks down in horror. The blood leaking out from behind the makeshift bandage has stopped as well. Toby isn't breathing, isn't moving at all. For one heart-stopping instant he's certain that Toby is dead, and then he realizes. They are _between_ moments, somehow.

It can't last, though. "Help him," he says quickly. "That's what I want."

"He is not your friend," she points out.

Greg lets out a breath of what, under any other circumstances, would be laughter. She's right, once again. Toby isn't a friend. He's a colleague. And a bit of an arsehole, to be honest. Arrogant, impudent, entitled. Greg had spent most of his previous shift swearing at him and dealing with the paperwork that Toby had, yet again, carelessly screwed up and left for someone else to sort out. And then tonight he'd lunged between Greg and a scared, doped-up kid with a knife who'd long since disappeared while Greg was trying to stop Toby from bleeding out in a dirty alley.

"Doesn't really matter, does it? I owe him. It ought to be me lying there."

"Is that what you want?"

He's startled enough to meet her eyes directly. Her gaze burns straight through him, leaving him gasping and feeling as if he's been turned inside out. "Can you do that?" His voice is raspy, and he clears his throat.

She tilts her head slightly. He knows what that means. She's found a price she'll accept from him, even if he doesn't realize what it is yet."You would trade places with him."

He doesn't give himself time to think. "Yes."

"I accept your offer."

The sudden bright flashes of light all around disorient him, and he doesn't even have time to brace himself against the inevitable pain before the paramedics are pouring out of the ambulance, swarming around Toby. Toby, who is still bleeding profusely, but swearing at the crew with such vigor that one of them grins at Greg. "No worries here, mate. Can't be much wrong with him if he's that loud."

"He's always like that," Greg agrees, laughing with relief, and Toby, with fine impartiality, includes Greg in his next round of curses as the paramedics maneuver him carefully into the ambulance.

"They felt sorry for you," Greg tells Toby a few months later, when the promotion comes through and Toby's strutting around the office like a peacock. "Think how embarrassing it would've been to have died a DC. They have to hurry up and promote you so you'll look good in the papers when you get shot."

"In the back," Toby agrees, and guffaws at his own joke. "Don't worry, Greg, I promise not to put on airs. Now, be a good boy and go fetch me a coffee."

Greg tells him exactly what he can do with his coffee, and a passing DI with a stick up his arse reprimands him for disrespectful behavior towards a senior officer, and Toby smirks at him behind the DI's back. Greg refuses to fix any of Toby's paperwork for two weeks.

******************

"This is stupid," the young constable mutters.

Greg is inclined to agree with her, but he knows better than to say so. He's supposed to be setting a good example for the younger police officers, not contributing to their cynicism.

"He is a good officer," he states quietly. "He gets results."

"So do you, and you don't kiss arse to do it." Greg shifts his full attention to her, surprised, and he thinks she blushes before looking away. "Sorry, sir."

"Donovan, isn't it?" He waits for her nod before continuing. "Be careful what you say. Things like that have a way of coming back to haunt you."

"But this was your case!" she bursts out, clearly frustrated. "They're making him DI, but you put in all the groundwork!"

He knows. Commendations, awards, write-ups in the paper, now another promotion. Somehow Toby always manages to come out of whatever he's involved in with full credit for all of it. It's kept Greg awake nights more than once, the bitterness threatening to spill over and poison his entire career. But in the end, he reminds himself, the job gets done. The people of London are about as safe as they can reasonably expect to be, and he's done his part to make sure of it. It doesn't really matter, does it, who gets the credit?

Doesn't mean it's not nice when someone notices, though. He grins at DC Donovan. "It'll be all right."

She eyes him with skepticism, but the newly-minted DI Gregson is coming their way now passing out handshakes and backslaps all around, and inviting everyone to come and have a drink on him after work. Greg nudges Donovan when she opens her mouth, and interjects hastily, "Yeah, we'll be there."

He shrugs at her when Toby's gone on his way. "Free drinks. And he's not a bad guy, when you get to know him."

"Still should be you," Donovan grumbles.

The words send a shiver through him, almost like vertigo. He shakes his head to clear it. "It's all right," he says again, and to his own surprise, he's mostly sincere.

****************

****************

Greg puts aside the folder, straightens the precariously leaning stack with a sigh, and picks up the next one. He reaches for his coffee cup automatically, but it's long since empty. He's running solely on adrenaline and cigarettes, and he takes a moment to wonder, with black humor, which of them is responsible for the grey hairs he's recently spotted.

His eyes are burning. He rubs at them and blinks, and it's a few moments before they clear enough for him to make out her form.

"Right," he sighs. " _Now_ you're here. Where were you nineteen hours ago, when she was kidnapped on her way to school?"

He doesn't know why he bothers. He knows she won't answer. "What do you want?" she asks instead.

Greg clenches his jaw. "You know what I want. Three other girls have turned up dead within twenty-four hours of being taken. We have to find her before he kills her."

"What will you give me?"

He's really not in the mood for games. He shrugs. "Can't think of anything I've got that you'd need."

There is a long silence, filled with unspoken traps. Then she speaks, one word. "Vickie."

Greg is frozen, gripping the folder like it's a lifeline. Gradually he manages to speak, his voice hoarse. "I can't. You know that."

"Then give me the murderer."

Colour floods into his face, and he furiously tosses the folder onto the table. "You keep asking for people. Why? Do you get some kind of prize for collecting them or something? I can't give you something that's not mine!"

"You're angry," she observes coolly. "But not at me. You'd like to give him to me, and you're angry both that you feel that way, and that your own principles are preventing it."

Greg takes a few deep breaths before replying. He strongly suspects that saying what he wants to say at that moment would be a very bad idea. "I won't give you the killer, no matter how much I might think that you deserve each other. And I certainly won't give you my wife."

"She has already given herself. Not to me, of course. To another. But you knew that."

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Greg struggles for words. "She...I know. We don't--we're working it out."

"You are not. You are working extra hours to avoid the issue, and she is finding other ways to occupy her time. You will not give her to me; very well. Give me the relationship instead. It is of no use to you, and clearly of no value to her."

While he's still trying to process that, she adds almost casually, "You have five hours. Less, now. Do you really think your men will find her in time?"

Greg is exhausted and stressed and far too angry to think about what he's saying. "What the hell do you want from me? Every time I think I have nothing left, you find something else to take! Why don't you ever show up when I want something? Why don't you ever give me anything?"

She smiles, and suddenly he's more afraid than he's ever been in his life. "What makes you think I haven't?"

He shakes his head. "You've never--"

"You don't remember these meetings until they happen again. Why would you remember the ones where you've benefited, personally?" Greg could swear the room is going colder as she moves closer to him. "There is a reason that she fell in love with you in the beginning, you know."

"No." He can't find any other words, and repeats that one numbly. "No."

"Your attachment to her is all on your side, at this point. She has already given it up, and you have refused to see it. Give it to me, and you will find the child."

Some small part of Greg's brain that is still functioning makes him specify automatically, "Alive and unharmed."

She inclines her head. "As you say."

It takes all the remaining energy he can summon up to say it. "Fine."

"I accept your offer," she says, and Greg jumps in surprise as Toby barges into his office.

"Knew you'd still be here. Look, we have a lead on where the kid might be. Do you want to ride along?"

"Hell, yes." Greg stands up, fighting off a sudden wave of disorientation, and grabs his jacket. "What's the matter, you need a bodyguard?"

Toby shrugs. "I know you've put in a lot of work on this. Just thought you'd like to see the end of it."

"I hope you mean 'end' in a good way," Greg says gloomily.

"God, you're just a barrel of laughs, aren't you." Toby holds the door open for him. "Have a little faith, Greg."

Greg shakes his head as he closes the door behind himself. "All out, Toby. Sorry."

************

It's well after noon when he makes it home; after the girl has been returned, terrified but unharmed, to her hysterical parents; after the killer has managed to injure a couple of officers before being subdued; after more paperwork has been completed than Greg can remember ever seeing at any one time (Toby, of course, having managed to duck out of most of the grunt work).

The house is empty. The divorce papers are lying on the kitchen table. He should feel something, he thinks distantly, but he's just too exhausted.

********************

********************

"Sherlock!" Greg stops the chest compressions for a moment to double-check, but nothing's changed. Sherlock's still not breathing. Unconsciously, Greg shakes the too-thin shoulders. "Dammit, Sherlock!"

Any second now the young man will open those pale eyes, will somehow manage to look down on Greg even though he's sprawled on the floor, will drawl out "Greg," in that disdainful public school voice he uses when he thinks someone is being particularly stupid, which is always. Any second now.

His skin is taking on a shade of blue, and Greg curses and starts the chest compressions again. "Come on, you bastard," he pants.

The light changes around him, but he doesn't look up, doesn't let himself lose focus. "I don't have anything left," he says flatly.

Her laughter is almost a physical thing, falling around him like shards of ice. "There is always something."

He doesn't answer, his full concentration on the still figure on the floor.

"He's not going anywhere, you know," she tells him. "Not while we bargain. You must tell me. What do you want?"

Now Greg does look up incredulously. "You're joking, right?" He shakes his head. "He's brilliant. High as a kite, most of the time, and he solves more cases than I ever will. If he ever straightens out...well, I don't know what he'll be, but I hope I'm around to see it."

"You want him free of the harmful substances?"

Greg narrows his eyes at her. "I know how that works. Give him five minutes, he'll be free of all substances. Permanently. No, I want him alive, and with that brain of his intact. He'll have to work out the rest from there."

"What will you give me?" If his accusation disturbs her, she gives no sign of it.

He shrugs. "What do you want?"

She raises her eyebrows at him. "A dangerous question."

"I've got nothing. Honestly." A cheap flat. A mediocre career; he's finally made DI, but he's known more for his unrelenting hard work than for any flashes of brilliance. A decent team, sure, but they aren't on the table. Greg almost has to laugh at the irony. If all that energy and impatience were ever harnessed, Sherlock could help more people than Greg and his team put together. And Greg has nothing to offer to save him. "Nothing to my name except a second-hand motorcycle and a stack of bills."

"Your name," she muses, and smiles. "Yes, that will do nicely."

He stares at her. "My name."

"Only the first one," she says reasonably. "You may keep the surname."

How could she take his name? He doesn't understand. It doesn't matter anyway; a man's life is surely worth a word that he doesn't even use much himself. It's like calling your own phone number; people don't, mostly.

Greg shrugs. "Sure, take it."

"I accept your offer," she says, and Sherlock gasps and chokes and thrashes wildly for breath for several seconds before Lestrade can manage to restrain him.

He's trying to say something, his eyes wide, and finally he calms enough to rasp out, "You idiot! What did she ask for?"

"Shut up, Sherlock," Lestrade snaps. "Just breathe, okay? I told you this would happen one day. You're lucky to be alive."

"Not...luck," Sherlock wheezes. "How many bargains have you made? What else have you given her?"

"You're hallucinating, Sherlock," Lestrade says gently. "It's all right. Stay quiet. We'll get you to the hospital soon."

Sherlock makes a strange noise, almost a gurgling sound, and then he somehow manages to look even more terrified. "You _imbecile,_ " he manages, just as he passes out.

******************

Sherlock is awake when Lestrade gets to the hospital the next morning, looking terrible and hooked up to a multitude of tubes, but alive and conscious. There's a man in an impeccable suit sitting beside his bed, and Lestrade nods to him. He stands and holds out a hand as Lestrade approaches. "Mycroft Holmes," he introduces himself. "Sherlock's brother. I saw you last night, but in the confusion I'm afraid I had no chance to speak to you."

Lestrade shakes his hand and introduces himself in turn. "Lestrade." It sounds...bare, somehow. Abrupt. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he clarifies. There, that's better.

Mycroft glances at Sherlock. "Yes, I see what you mean," he says rather cryptically. Then he sits back down and indicates another chair. "Please make yourself comfortable, Detective Inspector."

"Call me Lestrade," he replies, taking the offered seat. "Everyone does." He looks over at Sherlock. "You're looking lively."

"The doctors say he's recuperating remarkably well," Mycroft agrees, when Sherlock only glares sullenly at Lestrade. "He has you to thank for that, I believe. It was very kind of you."

"Some people," Sherlock growls, his voice hoarse, "are too kind for their own damn good." He's not looking at either of them, and Lestrade can't tell whether that remark was aimed at him or Mycroft.

Mycroft sighs, and looks apologetically at Lestrade. "You helped my brother, Detective Inspector. I'm afraid he may never forgive you."

Lestrade laughs. "I'm sure I'll muddle along somehow." He looks at Mycroft appraisingly. "You know, I've arrested him several times. He keeps showing up at my crime scenes and mucking about with my evidence. Funny thing, though, the charges never stick. The paperwork goes missing or they get thrown out on a technicality or suddenly he's got three separate alibis. You wouldn't happen to know anything about any of that, would you?"

Mycroft shrugs. "Really, Detective Inspector, I can't be held responsible for the failings and foibles of London's Finest, can I? However, I will try to maintain a closer level of supervision on him in the future."

"I'd rather be locked up," Sherlock mumbles. He twists restlessly, and his fingers twitch.

Lestrade looks at him severely. "You nearly died, Sherlock. As smart as you are, and yet you're an absolute idiot about this. Your body can't take any more of this, you'll kill yourself."

Sherlock shrugs, and an expression flits across Mycroft's face that Lestrade doesn't want to examine too carefully.

"Look, I'll make you a deal," he offers, and is completely unprepared for Sherlock's response.

"No more fucking _deals_ , you incompetent moron!" Sherlock has practically arched off of the bed in his rage. "You've learned _nothing_ \--I never asked for this--"

Mycroft is standing suddenly, pushing Sherlock gently back down on the bed, quieting him. "Once again I must apologize for my brother, Detective Inspector. He's not himself at the moment. You understand."

"Lestrade," Lestrade tells him again, and nods. "Yeah. Sherlock, settle down. Listen to me." He has the feeling that he'll have to go through all this again once Sherlock has been through withdrawal, but if he can get him to listen right now, maybe it'll help keep him motivated.

"You seem to be interested in crimes. You keep coming along and telling me what I'm doing wrong."

"You're the only one who listens," Sherlock mutters. His eyes are closed now, and he's turned towards Mycroft, who still has a hand resting gently on his shoulder. "New Scotland Yard is comprised entirely of idiots, but at least you have the capacity to recognize genius when you see it, which makes you marginally less incompetent than the rest of them."

Lestrade has to laugh again. It's a reaction that seems to surprise Mycroft; he raises an eyebrow at Lestrade. But if Lestrade had ever had any ego problems, his job had trampled them out of him long ago. Sherlock's verbal jabs seem to him to be the clumsy attempts of a restless child to gain attention.

"Here's my offer. You get clean--and stay clean--and I'll see if I can find some way to let you in on the cases officially. I'll, I don't know, get you a consultant status or something. I'm not promising, mind, but I'll do what I can."

Sherlock opens his eyes, looking interested for the first time. "Mycroft could fix the paperwork, that wouldn't be a problem, but you'd have to--you'd work with me? You'd give me access to your cases?"

"If you get off the drugs," Lestrade says firmly. "That's not negotiable. And I will be checking up on you, don't think I won't. And you have to follow crime scene procedure. Maybe you can find who stole the jewelry by looking at the gardener's toenails, but the rest of us have to prove it in court, and you'll be no use at all to me if you're destroying all my evidence."

"It's a very generous offer, Detective--Lestrade." The name sounds wrong, almost, coming from Mycroft, but Lestrade appreciates the effort he's making. He gets the impression that the elder Holmes brother doesn't really do informal.

Mycroft casts a meaningful look at Sherlock, who sighs in irritation. "Fine, yes. Thank you--" He makes that half-choking noise again, and clears his throat. "Thank you. Lestrade." He looks back at Mycroft. "I want to sleep now."

"Certainly." Before Lestrade knows what's happening, Mycroft has him by the elbow and is steering him out to the hall.

"I really must thank you again for your assistance with my brother." Mycroft sounds as if he's not really used to thanking people for things, but he's making a creditable stab at it. "If you hadn't found him in time...well, I don't like to contemplate what would have happened. And it's very good of you to offer to work with him, especially after the considerable difficulties he has caused you in the past."

"Yeah, well." Lestrade shrugs. "He's got a lot of potential, and I hate to see that go to waste."

Mycroft meets his eyes, and Lestrade can't help but think that he looks...troubled, somehow. "Yes, I know exactly what you mean." He clears his throat. "My brother owes you his life, Lestrade. Believe me, neither of us will forget that."

The conversation is starting to make Lestrade uncomfortable. "He doesn't owe me anything. I'd have done the same thing for anyone."

It takes Mycroft a moment to answer, and when he does, Lestrade doesn't really understand his words, or why he still looks worried. "Yes. I believe that you would."

***************

***************

He's nearly into the building when the world explodes all around him.

When Lestrade opens his eyes, he has to blink away searing afterimages before he can focus on the man who's leaning over him. His mouth is moving, but Lestrade's having a hard time hearing him.

He feels as if he's been hit by a truck. Groaning, he drags himself mostly upright, and takes the man's outstretched hand to pull himself up the rest of the way.

"--you all right?" the man is saying insistently. His voice is still sounding small and far-away. He looks familiar, but Lestrade can't think about that right now. He's turning, looking at the devastation all around them. Half the building has collapsed into rubble; the other half gapes open to the night, creaking ominously.

Memories slam into place as he watches, and he takes a few quick instinctive steps forward before the man's grip on his arm brings him to a halt. Lestrade swings around to glare at him. "Let go!" His own voice sounds muffled to him. The explosion, he thinks dimly.

"You can't go in there," the man tells him. Lestrade tries to shake his hand off, but the man is holding him too tightly. Sherlock's brother, he realizes. Mycroft, that's his name. "The slightest vibration could set off further collapse."

How can he be so reasonable at a time like this? "Your brother's in there!"

Mycroft blinks twice; it's his only discernible reaction. "Yes, I know. And Doctor Watson as well."

"Oh, God." Lestrade feels sick, suddenly. "Both of them? We have to--"

"Please listen to me, Detective Inspector. They were at the center of the explosion. If they have somehow managed to survive, then bringing down more of the building on top of them is the last thing we want to do. Wait for my men. They have the proper equipment for this."

 _If they have somehow managed to survive._ Mycroft's voice is growing just a bit clearer, and Lestrade can hear the despair in his nearly-controlled tone. He doesn't think they have. He thinks they're both--

"No," he says, fists clenched. "There has to be something--"

"There is always something."

He spins around to face her, startled, and even after all this time, after everything that's happened, his first emotion is relief. "You. You can save them."

"Of course. If an acceptable payment is offered."

"No."

Lestrade hadn't said that. He looks back at Mycroft in shock. "You...can you see her?"

"Most unfortunately, yes."

She's glaring at Mycroft, and the fury in her eyes causes Lestrade to take an instinctive step back. "This is none of your concern. You may not interfere."

He shrugs. "And yet, here I am." His grip tightens even further on Lestrade's arm. "Lestrade. Do not bargain with her. Her prices are too high."

"He has always paid them willingly," she snaps. "The decision is his."

He doesn't understand. "He's your _brother_."

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment, and then looks at him. "Yes. You have brothers, don't you, Lestrade? What would you be willing to do for them?"

The question takes him aback. "I don't know." He tries not to think about his brothers these days. It makes him feel guilty, somehow, in the back of his mind; yet another reminder of an area in which he's failed. "We don't talk very much anymore. None of my family does, really. I'm just not good at keeping in touch, I guess."

"No." Mycroft hasn't let go of Lestrade's arm, and he's beginning to think that he doesn't intend to. "It's very difficult to keep in touch with someone when you don't remember their name. Makes the family reunions awkward, you see." He sighs at the look of incomprehension on Lestrade's face. "You have no idea, do you? Even now, you don't truly understand what she's taken from you."

"Nothing I didn't give," Lestrade retorts, beginning to be irritated by Mycroft's attitude. "And she gave me--she helped me--"

"Did you?" Mycroft looks at her, one eyebrow raised. "Do tell. What did you give him, in return for all that you took away?"

She looks down. "I did offer." Her voice is defensive. "He never saw me, those times. He couldn't even hear me."

Lestrade is glancing between the two of them. "I don't understand."

"No. I wouldn't expect you to." Mycroft sighs again. "She lies, that is the important thing for you to remember. She says she's helped you. She hasn't. She's given you everything you asked for, yes, but you've given her everything you ever had in return."

Lestrade thinks over the little he can remember of his bargains with her. Mycroft may be right, but there's nothing for him to be ashamed of there. "I wouldn't change it. Any of it." He looks directly at her. "You know what I want. I'll pay whatever you ask."

"No!" Mycroft says again. "Sherlock is right, you are unforgivably slow sometimes. Some prices are too high to pay."

For a moment he wonders, looking at the fear in Mycroft's eyes, what he's paid. What he gave up, and for who. Then he dismisses it, and looks at her. "Ask me."

"What do you want?"

"Both of them," he says firmly. "When this is over, they walk out alive and undamaged."

"That is extraordinarily unlikely," she says flatly. "One of them. In exchange for the other."

He doesn't even have to think. "No." Sherlock is just starting to show signs of the man Lestrade believes he can become, and Lestrade strongly suspects that the quiet ex-Army doctor who's taken to following him around has a lot to do with that. They're a team, anyone can see that, and if Sherlock is worth saving, then Doctor Watson is no less so. "Both of them. For whatever you want."

"Then it will be a high price indeed. I will accept the only thing you have left." She pauses, watching him. "Your heart."

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. "My heart?"

"Not your physical heart, of course. I am not allowed to take your life." Is that a trace of regret in her voice? "Only the unquantifiable emotions your kind associates with them. Your ability to feel love and compassion and such."

"And you still believe this is your wisest course of action?" Mycroft's voice is sneering, but Lestrade is used to listening for whatever's underneath Sherlock's similar snits. Mycroft is afraid. "This is everything that you _are_ , Lestrade. If she had taken that first, you wouldn't have been able to make all those previous bargains."

"Which would have left me better off, according to you. Ironic, isn't it?" Lestrade grins at him, and then turns the grin towards her, feeling it twist into more of a snarl. "This is what you wanted all along, isn't it? Everything I am, like he says." He nods at Mycroft. "That's why you kept asking me to give you those people. If I did that, if I tried to bargain with something that I had no right to, you'd have had me as well, wouldn't you?"

She is smiling at him now, and he can't believe that in all those years, he never saw the teeth in that expression. "Either way, I win."

"That's a matter of opinion," Lestrade says stubbornly. "I got everything I wanted."

"You don't want this," Mycroft warns, his expression strained. "To be able to feel nothing--to love nothing--"

"You know something? Right now, that only feels like a _good_ thing." He thinks of his brothers once more. He hadn't realized, when he gave up his name, the effect that it would have. Like your own phone number, he'd thought; you don't ring it. But other people do. And when they lose your number, they can't reach you anymore.

It doesn't matter. It may even work to his benefit now. When she takes his heart, who will even notice, at this point?

He faces her, unconsciously straightening up. "All right. I'm ready."

"I accept your offer," she says, and despite himself, at the last moment he grasps Mycroft's arm in return, holding on tightly.

****************

Dark.

It's dark, and he's cold, and he hurts.

He gropes his way dimly back to consciousness, trying to remember. Something hard and sharp is poking into his back, and voices echo around him.

"--don't see any major contusions--"

"--not the explosion. I'm not sure--"

"You were right _here_ , how could you let him--"

He knows that last voice, furious and angry. Looks like he's in for yet another round of damage control. He sighs, forcing his eyes open and struggling to sit up.

"Hey, no." A ghostly figure pushes him back down, a hand on his chest keeping him still for the moment. "Just lie there a minute, let's make sure you're all right."

"John--" Mycroft's voice, sounding uneasy, not like himself at all, and Lestrade's attention shifts to him. "Be careful--he may not..."

Mycroft's voice trails off, and Lestrade looks back at his ghost. It's Doctor Watson, he realizes, with a fine layer of dust all over him, smudged in areas where he's tried ineffectually to brush it away. _The explosion_ , he thinks, and memory rushes back. He shoves the doctor's hand away and sits up. "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock is glaring at him. "You, however--what have you done _this_ time?"

He shakes his head, bewildered. Shouldn't he feel different, somehow? Why did remembering the explosion cause such a rush of fear? Why is there inexplicable relief, now, looking at the pair of them covered with dust but unmistakably alive? He'd thought he wouldn't care anymore. He'd even thought, for a still small moment amidst the whirling terror, that that might be a _good_ thing.

Doctor Watson is glaring at Sherlock with that mixture of irritation and fondness that's become his hallmark. "He hasn't done anything, Sherlock. Except maybe get knocked out by some debris." He turns back to Lestrade. "Detective Inspector--" And then he hesitates. "Look, can I call you something else? Because that's a mouthful."

Lestrade stares at him blankly for a long moment, unable to look away, or to answer. Finally, Sherlock says quietly, "Greg." He pauses, clears his throat. He still sounds slightly hoarse. _Dust,_ Lestrade thinks. _Explosion._ "His name is Greg."

"So you do have a first name," Watson jokes. "I was beginning to wonder. I don't see any bruises or bleeding. Are you seeing double? Any vision problems at all?"

"I'm fine," Greg says faintly, and he sounds so unconvincing, even to his own ears, that he's not surprised when the doctor cocks his head skeptically at him. He can't worry about that now, though. He turns, searching for Mycroft, who's being uncharacteristically quiet.

Mycroft is watching him carefully, but there are no answers in his eyes, nothing but uncertainty. "No," he murmurs in response to Greg's unasked question. "I wasn't expecting that. Not at all."

"She was here," Sherlock asserts. "We wouldn't be alive otherwise." He glares at Greg again. "And you--what did you do? What did you promise to her?"

Doctor Watson is looking back and forth between them, confused, but Greg can't worry about him right now. He pushes himself up, and Watson scrambles up as well, reaching out to steady him. "Greg--"

"And how, exactly, did you manage _that_?" Sherlock demands.

He shakes his head again. "I don't know."

Sherlock turns to glare at Mycroft. "What happened?"

Mycroft pauses, and then answers reluctantly. "She asked for his heart."

Greg thinks for a moment that Sherlock is actually going to have an apoplectic fit. Watson, to judge from his alarmed expression, thinks so too. He reaches out, trying to soothe Sherlock, and Sherlock shakes him off. "You utter, _utter_ \--"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" Watson says loudly, and to everyone's surprise, Sherlock's mouth snaps shut. Watson is glaring at him. "I don't have any idea what you're all talking about, but obviously Greg's fine. We're all fine."

"Both of you," Sherlock says tightly. "Both of you, tonight. You could have died, trying to protect me, and how anyone can manage to deal with such incredible stupidity--" He turns away suddenly, paces a few steps back and forth, shaking his head.

Watson watches him, smiling slightly. "At least I took the gun away from him this time," he murmurs, and Greg pretends he didn't hear that.

"It wasn't just you, you arrogant git," he says, to distract Sherlock from whatever strange breakdown he's experiencing. "Doctor Watson was in there too."

"Call me John," the doctor offers.

"Well, of course he was," Sherlock snaps. "You've never known when to stop, have you? Anything you can give away, to help anyone who..." And then he trails off, his mouth still open, and looks at Mycroft, his eyes widening. "She asked for his heart?"

Mycroft nods, cautiously, as if he's not sure what Sherlock's seeing.

"And he said yes." Sherlock is grinning now, that gleeful expression he gets when he's solved a case, and Greg would be irritated that even now, Sherlock is treating his entire life like a mystery, a puzzle to be solved, but right now he wants the answer too much himself to care. "He tried to give her his heart!"

And now Mycroft realizes, Greg can tell. His eyes widen. "Of course!"

Beside him, Doctor Watson--John--is looking irritated. Greg understands. It's difficult not to feel just a little bit out of step, left behind, when surrounded by Holmeses. "What?" he snaps.

"That's against the rules," Sherlock says triumphantly. "She had no right to take that. You had no right to bargain with it."

"Of course I did," he argues. "It's mine."

Mycroft is smiling at him now. "Not anymore. You gave it away a long time ago."

"I...what?" That silences him, finally; there seems to be no response he can make to it.

"A bit at a time," Mycroft says, as if that makes things clearer. "Every time you made a bargain."

Sherlock, of course, has to explain. Needs to explain. Which is fine with Greg. Maybe, if Sherlock keeps talking, something will sink into his mind, something that makes sense. "There are rules. You can't offer something you have no rights to. She can't make that kind of bargain, she's not allowed. Your offer would have been enough, you would have been lost then. But you didn't know--you made the offer in good faith--and she tried to take it--" He breaks off, spinning around to face Mycroft. "What happened?"

"She was very angry," Mycroft said soberly. "She tried--" He nods at Greg. "I thought she had succeeded. When she disappeared, and he collapsed."

"She failed. You managed to keep your heart." For a moment, Sherlock actually looks confused. "But we established that you'd already given it away." He frowns. "That's inherently illogical--"

John laughs outright, and Sherlock turns to him with wounded indignation. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Sherlock. I don't have a clue what you're all on about, and even I understand that one."

Sherlock looks around. Even Mycroft is smirking. "All right," he concedes, scowling. "Obviously there's a self-evident proposition here of which I am unaware. It seems to have worked in your favor, at any rate. And somehow, you managed an extra." He hesitates, and says it carefully, as if he's still surprised that he can. "Greg."

He hasn't won everything back, he knows. He's still a divorced DI with a rough past and a dirtbag of a father who died in prison. But now he's a divorced DI with friends and family who know his name, and a heart that, although rather battered and scarred by time and hard knocks, still works just fine. He's going to be all right.

"I really don't intend to be rude," John says plaintively. "But can someone please explain what exactly is going on?" He looks past them all, over by the ruins of the building. "Oh, and there's the emergency services. Finally."

Greg can hear the noise, now, the sirens wailing and the men calling and the debris shifting ominously. He wonders why he hadn't, before.

"Time doesn't always pass properly, when she is involved," Mycroft says. It's somehow more eerie when he reads people's minds than when Sherlock does it, or maybe Greg's just more used to Sherlock.

"There's nobody left alive in there," John says, shuddering. "We need to let them know. Nothing but...pieces."

"Moriarty?" Mycroft asks sharply.

Sherlock glances at John, asking an unspoken question, and then back at Mycroft. "We didn't see him. Come on, John."

They set off towards the barely controlled chaos. John looks back just long enough to call out, "Come round to Baker Street later. Both of you. I'll put on some tea and you can tell me what the hell just happened, right?" Sherlock pulls impatiently at his sleeve, and he turns to follow.

Greg takes a deep breath. The events of the past night are starting to blur. Already he can't remember her face, only the impression of light and beauty, warped by underlying hatred. "Am I going to forget everything again?"

Mycroft shrugs. "Probably. Most of it."

"Will you remember?" For some reason, it seems vitally important to Greg that someone does. "Will Sherlock?"

Mycroft's face twists, almost as if in pain. "I'm never quite certain of what Sherlock remembers. Sometimes it seems...I hope not. It's better for him if he doesn't."

"What happened to him?" Greg asks softly, against his better judgment.

Mycroft's shoulders tense, and Greg thinks for a moment that he's not going to answer. But eventually, he does. "I made a bargain."

They're both quiet, then, for several long moments. Finally Mycroft takes a deep breath. "You did defeat her. I won't forget that. Maybe, in some way that we don't understand yet, there is hope for the rest of us." He straightens, brushing off his already-spotless suit. "I'd better go and speak to my men."

"Yeah," Greg murmurs. "I'd better go and make sure Sherlock doesn't antagonize half the fire and rescue blokes on duty tonight."

"There are," Mycroft says, his mouth twitching, "only so many impossible tasks you can be expected to perform in one night."

Greg grins at him. "Well then, guess we'd better get started."


End file.
